CH 90

I walked toward Bloom's and the Carlyle Club earlier than I had originally intended, mostly because I could not sit at home after the conversation with Hugo.

We hadn't said much after he claimed I needed to explain my feelings regarding Lucille to myself, as if I were completely unaware of the tempest brewing inside of me. I knew damned well how I felt, which was the problem as I didn't want to feel anything at all.

What I knew for certain was that I should not have enjoyed Lucille's company, but I did, which became my fixation as I headed toward the art district.

I enjoyed the maddening way Lucille held a conversation while swimming at the university pool. I enjoyed the way she had suddenly appeared beside me at Sterois when she very well could have remained with her friends. I thoroughly enjoyed the manner in which she produced a tin of cinnamon rolls out of her gigantic magic bag. And despite her complete disregard for my instructions, I did enjoy how Lucille unexpectedly interacted with Elvira.

If I allowed myself to think about it more, I would have recalled very specific details of the night I had walked her home three years earlier.

I would have thought about how she had blushed profusely when I asked to take her hand, the look in her eyes after the first time I kissed her, and the way she had combed her fingers gently through my hair and caressed the shell of my ear before we had walked into her bedroom and undressed each other.

I would have remembered how concerned Lucille had been about the scar to my forearm, how she had asked if it would hurt if she touched my wrist or gripped my hand. She was not offended or interested in a perverse sense as some other women had been; she had wanted to make sure that she didn't cause me discomfort.

Most women avoided touching my left forearm for obvious reasons. I couldn't blame them as the scar was hideous in appearance and I didn't expect anyone to voluntarily touch the burn mark, but it was a bit awkward when they blatantly stared and then pretended not to notice.

And then there was Lucille, who wasn't like anyone else I'd ever met, who had looked at my arm and wanted to know what she could do to make me more comfortable.

If I had put forth the effort to remember her better, I would have recalled how Lucille had nestled close to me in the middle of the night, draped only in a sheet. At a time when I normally would have dressed and returned home, I had stayed. My right arm had gone numb from where her head rested, but I found myself unable to remove myself from her side. I wanted to be there, to feel her breaths against my chest, to listen to her talk, to be less alone.

I had hurt so deeply on the return trip from Conforeit, hurt in ways I didn't think was possible to experience at my age. Three days spent with Bjorn had resurfaced the memory of suffering that I had thought buried for good.

And then on my way back to the train station, I spotted Gyda huddled against a building in town, her dingy, tattered shawl wrapped around her thin frame, greasy hair stuck to her skull, and a distant look in her eyes. She clutched her side as if favoring her ribs and I wondered if she had been beaten one last time before Bjorn was too weak to hurt her ever again.

She had looked terrified, which was how I had recognized her, as she had often looked as though the world was filled with unspeakable horrors, which as an adult I realized had been her disillusioned existence.

Our eyes met as I passed through the town in a carriage bound for Calais. I smiled warmly at Gyda, knowing it would be the last moment I ever saw my mother as I had no intention of returning to Conforeit for quite some time. The house and the town could rot for all I cared.

But I had not wanted whatever life she had left to be one of misery. She had suffered for as long as I could recall and didn't deserve a second more of her plight.

I waited for her to recognize me as her son, to smile or wave so that I could ask the driver to stop and I could tell her that Bjorn was finally dead, the house was under my name, but hers to live in for as long as she liked. I would periodically send funds to the small store in town so that she had food to eat.

The carriage passed slowly, her eyes locked on mine. She had recognized me, but not as her child. She saw me as Bjorn, as the man who had beat and raped her repeatedly, keeping her like a prisoner in the woods. She saw the bastard who had kept her confined and concealed, away from the rest of the people who would have recognized her madness and his drunken rage.

I couldn't help but think the isolation was intentional; Bjorn had wanted all three of us at his mercy. I wondered how long it took for her to escape from him once he was bedridden. I knew for certain when she looked at me with sheer terror that she saw Bjorn. She probably thought her husband would force her back into the woods, drag her into the house, and make certain she never left again.

Gyda's fear was far worse than Bjorn's death. If she had thought Bjorn was still alive and well, she would not have returned to the house. With no shelter, she must have slept behind buildings or made a hut in the woods, drinking from the streams and foraging for food either in refuse bins or in gardens well after nightfall.

I had been distraught thinking of her dying somewhere in the woods, but aware that she would not voluntarily come near me and I could not chase her down without making her panic. She'd never learned French as far as I knew, and no one spoke Danish, leaving her unable to communicate. A mad, filthy woman, wild-eyed and prone to outbursts, roaming Conforeit with her broken ribs; that was how I left my own mother, the woman I had desperately wanted to love me.

As a very young child I had attempted to protect her from Bjorn despite knowing what he would do to me. I had wanted nothing more than to save her, and as I left her behind, I was sick to my stomach with the realization that it was not possible for me to rescue her from a world that she couldn't navigate.

The apathy I felt for myself was deeper than it had ever been, and the moment I stepped off the train in Paris, exhausted and stricken with grief, Lucille had approached me.

She had thought I was a lost traveler, which I supposed was how I appeared. I had one piece of luggage, which could not be found despite me seeing it loaded into the storage compartment, thus forcing me to fill out a slip stating what it looked like and at least some of the contents inside should items be missing.

Lucille had escorted me to the other side of the train station and offered to fill out the form, stating she had better handwriting than me and would keep the slip on the top of the pile so that I could be notified immediately when it was found.

And then we started talking about Calais and the sketchbook I'd put in my luggage that was apparently going to be lost forever. Lucille assured me that it was not lost forever. She handed me the pencil and another slip of paper and asked if I could at least draw a rough sketch to show her what was missing. It was a hasty scribble, but one she had asked to keep and I agreed.

And then her shift had ended and I waited for her, which made her smile.

And then I asked if I could walk her back home since I didn't have my luggage. It was late at night and I told her that she shouldn't be out walking alone, and she agreed.

And then I held her hand, and kissed her, and walked her inside and kissed her again. And then she had put her arms around me and we stood together for a long moment and I was certain that I should have kissed her one last time and left because she was kinder to me than I deserved and I would not reciprocate in the way she deserved. I wasn't sure if I told her that.

But I stayed. And the kisses turned more passionate, and she looked up at me with urgency and uncertainty, the desire and hesitation of someone who had never been passionately kissed by anyone before, much less anything else.

And if I wanted to remember correctly, I would have had to admit that being with Lucille had been less about sex and more about how it felt to be with someone, to share her bed, to feel her flesh against mine, and hear her speak. It was about looking into her dark eyes, the pleasure of her smile when I said something that she thought was amusing, and the way she ran the soft pads of her fingers over my skin, leaving behind a trail of goose flesh and the ripple of a shiver. The good kind of a shiver, the kind that stirred emotion unlike the ones I had felt while in Conforeit.

Being with her had been about wanting to surrender every part of myself that still existed after feeling as though I had crumbled into a heap of nothingness in a dilapidated house in the woods with a man who had refused to acknowledge all he had done to hurt his family.

Everything about Lucille had been soft and gentle, from her quivering, alabaster belly that I kissed to her small, delicate hands that had touched every inch of my body, even the scar on my left forearm. It hadn't hurt; she had made certain that she was careful not to apply pressure.

She had run her fingers through my hair, scraped her nails carefully along my jawline, and stroked my lips with the pad of her thumb, lulling me into mindless relaxation.

No one had ever done that before, mostly because I was quick to leave once we were satisfied and I didn't want the burden of small talk.

Lucille had been different, and the words were not small or meant to fill space. My racing mind had slowed, and I found myself more comfortable than I thought possible without being preoccupied with some sort of task to keep myself busy.

I had felt something deeper from the moment she offered to fill out the form on my behalf and I had allowed her to take the paper from me. I had wanted to experience what it was like to permit someone to do something for me, even as inconsequential as filling out a form at the train station. I had wanted to let go briefly, to lessen the pressure I felt bearing down on me, to feel as though I could relinquish full control and not immediately panic as though I were in danger of falling off the cliff of my own sanity.

The moment I stepped off the train, after paying for my father's burial and leaving my mother to roam aimlessly, I felt certain that I didn't deserve any type of true affection. I was not meant to experience love or trust or compassion. I had chosen to be alone and that was what I had been for years, but compassion had found me in the most tender of caresses and an easy smile.

For one night I felt like perhaps there could be a life for me outside of guilt and grief, that there was more to sex than the act itself. There were women like Lucille, who had no idea what she wanted when it came to intimacy, but somehow knew what I needed.

I had still left eventually left that night, once she was asleep. I had kissed her twice: once on the lips and then on her forehead, and felt regret twist inside of me.

I had seen her once more when my luggage was found before I had convinced myself to forget her completely.

In three years I had managed to erase her from my memory, burying her beneath the trauma of Bjorn passing and Gyda wandering.

Gyda had died weeks later. Or at least that was what I was told in a letter from the physician. I hadn't returned to Conforeit, but I had paid for the burial of a woman they thought was Gyda Kimmer.

Despite the lack of a relationship with my own mother, I mourned her deeply. I sobbed alone in my apartment in a way that I had not thought was possible outside of childhood.

I thought about walking to the train station. I thought about how wonderful it had been to spend an evening with someone who had not known me well, but still cared.

But I didn't want to think about Lucille and I couldn't bear the thought of seeking her out in times of grief.

As I neared Bloom's, I didn't want to remember any part of that night three years earlier. I couldn't bear to think of the life I had purposely lost in staying away from her-or what would have happened if I'd continued seeing her.

She would have grown weary of me, I assumed. Assumed. There I was, assuming again. Lucille would have definitely pointed out that damnable word.

She was too young and she was too nice.

I had to forget her again.

And I had to keep reminding myself, it was for her own good.

oOo

The young lady behind the counter at Bloom's stared at me with her eyes narrowed.

"Kimmer," I said. "Erik."

"The only account I have under Kimmer is for Phelan."

"Which I have told you three times now is me. I don't want you to leave a message for me. I need you to leave one for Erik."

"Could it be under a different name?" she asked.

I shifted my weight, poking the inside of my cheek with my tongue. "It shouldn't be. It should…"

Of course Erik used an alias. He was a ghost hiding in the city who didn't want anyone to know his true identity. It was foolish of me to think otherwise.

"Kire?" I guessed.

"Kire Kimmer?"

"No, Erik Kire."

The woman looked skeptically at me. "No. There is no Erik Kire."

"You didn't look," I pointed out.

"I've been through the K to L index five times. I am already aware that there isn't a Kire listed."

I exhaled. "What about Giry?"

My question received a blank stare.

"Giry," I said again.

"I heard you."

"Wonderful," I said, aware that my tone didn't match what I said as I became increasingly irritated with someone who was tasked with serving customers but was magnificently quite the hinderence. "Would you please look under Giry?"

"First name?"

"There cannot be that many Girys, can there?"

"Do you know the first name?" she impatiently asked.

"Anne?" I guessed.

"No, there is not," the woman said.

"May I look through the index?" I asked.

"No."

I inhaled and silently counted to three. "Do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Phelan Kimmer," she blandly answered. "You already told me."

"Professor Kimmer," I corrected, annoyed by her inability to offer a shred of assistance. "From the university."

"Shall I congratulate you?" she sarcastically asked.

"No, you should look through the index and find Giry so that I can leave a note for her associate."

The woman continued to stare at me. "You'll have to come back when Monsieur Bloom is here."

I had met the Englishman Mr. Edwin Bloom once years earlier,when I was either seventeen or eighteen. He had seemed ancient at the time and couldn't hear or see, making it quite easy for me to steal a handful of pencils that I desperately needed as I had no funds to purchase my own. Eventually I had repaid him by bringing pencils to the register, paying for them, and then putting them back onto the shelf as I was not terribly God-fearing, but I was not about to go to hell over four graphite pencils.

"Is Monsieur Bloom still alive?" I snapped.

The woman looked horrified. "God willing he is well. I saw him two days ago." She looked me up and down as if I disgusted her. "What an awful thing to say, Professor Kimmer from the university."

My mouth dropped open. "I didn't say I wanted him dead, I asked if he was still alive. He must be ninety at this point."

"He's ninety-eight," she answered. "And in good health."

I shifted my weight, attempting to curb my flaring temper as it was doing me no good. "Mademoiselle, I am attempting to locate my brother, Erik Kimmer, whom I believe is an associate of Madame Giry. My brother has been missing for a very long time. Please, I am merely asking to leave a note with Madame Giry in hopes that it reaches my brother. May I please leave it with you?"

"Monsieur Bloom must approve it first."

I had one last card that I could possibly put into play, one that sat figuratively in my back pocket, but I'd never attempted to use it. "Hugo Duarte has already asked Monsieur Bloom," I said.

It always surprised me that Hugo' name carried so much clout. The woman behind the counter's eyes widened. "Hugo Duarte?" she questioned. "How do you know Monsieur Duarte?"

"He was my mentor," I answered. "And now he is a close friend helping me to search for my brother."

The woman eyed me for a long moment. "Well…"

She fell silent. My heart hammered, assuming if she didn't agree I really would have to return and speak to a blind and deaf man who was nearly a century old.

"I suppose if Hugo has asked Edwin…"

I swiftly scribbled my name and address with a brief note onto a piece of paper, folded it up, and wrote 'Erik Kimmer Madame Giry' on the front.

"Thank you," I said.

The woman frowned at me. "Good luck."

oOo

I was surprised to discover someone else had arrived at the salon before me as I was almost an hour early.

Sebastian Lotti sat at the furthest end of the table, arms crossed, slouched in his chair. He was wearing a white shirt with billowing sleeves that was unbuttoned almost to his belly button along with red velvet trousers that were the ugliest pants I'd ever seen in my life.

I left a chair open between us and took a seat at the table, my satchel on my lap.

"Sebastian," I said.

"Grandfather," he mumbled.

Not the greatest start, but at least he said something to me. A terrible conversation was better than the awful thoughts flitting through my mind.

"Have you brought a current art project with you?" I asked.

"Maybe," he answered.

There was no being on the planet quite as temperamental as a struggling artist. I had taught enough of them to understand most of their qualms and grievances had less to do with me and more to do with their own insecurities.

Rather than attempt to convince Sebastian to surrender his sketchbook, I placed mine on the table. It was one of the few that had no portraits of Erik, as I couldn't bring his likeness with me now that the newspapers and gendarmes had his image all over town.

Sebastian eyed me in silence as I placed the sketchbook closer to him.

"What are you doing?"

"I have a sketch I'm considering turning into a painting," I replied. "I feel like the focal point is off, though, and I would like a second, third, and forth opinion."

"Aren't you a professor?"

"I am."

"Then why the hell do you want my opinion?"

"Are you an artist?" I asked.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes, arms tightly crossed. "Yeah."

"Then why the hell would I not?"

Sebastian eyed me as if he couldn't decide if he wanted to be angry or laugh at my comment. Without a word, he took my open sketchbook and stared at the page.

"So I tell you that this is horse shit, then I show you mine and you tell me I should kill myself because it's so terrible and then what?"

I blinked at him, alarmed by his words. "There is nothing that you could possibly say about my sketch that would ever make me lash out at you in that fashion and I sincerely hope that nothing of the sort has been said at this salon in the past."

Sebastian started to push my sketchbook back toward me, but paused.

"Is this a hardware store?" he asked, taking a closer look. "The one on LaSalle?"

"You recognize it?"

Sebastian bristled despite showing interest in the sketch. "They helped me fix my easel last year," he said.

"What happened to your easel?"

"I got mad and threw it against a bench at the park."

Somehow, that didn't surprise me.

"That will certainly do it."

Sebastian looked as though he regretted admitting he was hot-headed.

"I don't know if the university would still be standing without Tomas and Thelonius," I commented. "They have saved me countless times."

The slightest of smiles touched the edges of Sebastian's mouth. "The sketch is fine, I guess," he said.

I remained quiet, waiting for him to give a more thorough critique, knowing he was fully capable of a better opinion.

"Looking at this, I can almost hear the door squeak when it opens," he said, tracing his finger over the center of the sketch. "Odd, isn't it? A hardware store with a squeaky door. You'd think they'd fix that."

I nodded in agreement. "Come to think of it, you're absolutely correct. I wonder why they haven't greased the hinges."

"It sounds like a woman moaning," Sebastian said. "You know when you're with a woman and she fancies you and-"

"I thought it sounded like a ghost, actually."

Sebastian looked unimpressed by my reply, but didn't argue.

"The letter 'A' in hardware," he said, smiling to himself after a while, "it's a bit crooked, just like in the window. That's actually very detailed. I don't know if I would have done that."

"I'm glad you noticed."

"How long did you sit there to draw this? You must have been across the street for hours."

"Most of it was from memory," I answered.

Sebastian gaped at me. "That is…" He caught himself becoming far too impressed and looked away, scowling. "I suppose some might be impressed."

"Some might," I agreed. Clearly he was not.

Sebastian's reaction made me inwardly smile as I wondered if I'd been this intolerable and insecure at his age. He tried quite desperately to seem disinterested in the conversation and my sketch, but he continued to study the drawing.

"I have no other opinion," he said. "I suppose it's fine."

"I appreciate your critique." I closed my sketchbook. "May I see yours as well?"

He looked at me as though I'd asked him to disrobe and cartwheel around the salon in front of a convent of elderly nuns.

"Do you want honest feedback?" I asked.

Sebastian eyed me suspiciously.

"Not negative feedback, not purely flattering, but honest feedback on technique?" I asked.

Without a word he pulled out a very large sketchbook and removed a single page from the inside, which he stared at for a long moment before he placed it on the table, face down.

"If you hate it, I would rather you just give it back to me and keep your opinion to yourself," he said.

I didn't reach for the paper, preferring instead to fold my hands. "My critiques are not based on love or hate," I said. "My critiques are based on your level of skill and how to improve so that you will love your own work enough to share it with others and continue to improve each time you pick up a pencil."

"That's not how we do it around here," Sebastian said.

"I honestly don't care how you did things previously. It will be how it's done going forward," I assured him. "I don't tolerate critiques for the sake of criticism."

Again he tried to seem disinterested, but it was evident he was relieved to hear there would be changes to the group.

"May I turn over your drawing?"

Sebastian nodded, his arms tightly crossed. "Yes, if you want."

I turned the page over, surprised that he had drawn a scruffy dog with pricked ears and a bushy brow. It was some sort of terrier, I thought, with a longer docked tail and a long beard. Despite my wariness around dogs, I still smiled, not expecting the subject matter.

"You hate it," Sebastian said suddenly, his features twisted with emotion.

I sat back, drawing in hand, and looked at him. "Have you already forgotten what I said to you?"

His features didn't soften, but he looked slightly embarrassed. "No," he said. "But I can tell you think it's immature."

"You're going to be terribly disappointed then as I do not hate your drawing nor do I feel it's immature. I have no assessment quite yet as I've barely had the opportunity to look at your sketch."

Sebastian sat rigid a seat away from me, apparently quite ready to argue or defend himself–which I suspected was both physically and emotionally.

I inhaled, turning my head to the side. "I see a little terrier type of dog," I said. "Is that correct? I'm not familiar with breeds."

"He's an Irish terrier," Sebastian said. "Duke."

"Duke is a fine looking dog," I commented, still studying the sketch. "With quite the impressive beard. And it looks like he's been in the field?"

"He likes to run. I take him out twice a day to the park and he runs until he cannot catch his breath. Then he runs again and we return home and he's quite content."

I smiled to myself, wishing I'd had better experiences with dogs. I would have liked a canine companion as a boy, a loyal retriever or a spirited terrier to run wild through the woods at my side. Given how lonely I'd been, I would have gladly accepted the affection of a dog, but the ones I'd met as a boy didn't care for me.

"Duke is your dog?" I asked.

Sebastian nodded. "Ivo gave him to me three years ago. Duke never leaves my side. He even sleeps in bed with me."

It never ceased to amaze me how the most combative person's demeanor changed when they spoke of something that they truly enjoyed, such as a beloved pet. Sebastian lit up before my eyes, revealing what I hoped was his true personality.

"Is Ivo coming tonight?"

"Yes. He's still at work," Sebastian said.

I returned to studying the drawing again. "You've done a wonderful job creating texture to his fur. He looks wiry."

Sebastian nodded, displaying a faint smile. "His coat is softer than it looks."

"As far as my critique goes, you have good, sharp lines around his body and much softer around his eyes and the nose. He looks alert and a bit mischievous."

"He had gotten into the water to chase a rowboat. This was him after he'd dried off in the grass and then decided to run through the park again. That's why he has twigs in his beard."

I nodded. "There is a twinkle in his eye."

Sebastian's smile widened. "He is full of life," he proudly said. "And like me, he's also full of shit."

I chuckled at his words.

"I would say that he could be a bit bigger," I said. "Meaning I think he should take up more space on the page. He is a dog with a big personality, yes?"

Sebastian eagerly nodded. "He's a terrier."

"Others may feel differently, but I would like to see him take up more of the page. I would like to see you draw him again, perhaps just his face to really focus on the eyes and the ears and his snout. Other than that, I see a very beloved pet. You have effectively piqued my curiosity in seeing Duke in action chasing boats and running until he collapses."

I handed the drawing back to Sebastian.

"What do I need to do differently?" he asked.

Sebastian looked as though he still expected a soul-crushing criticism of his art and his dog.

"As I said, draw him again."

"That's it?"

I nodded. "That's it."

"Professor Kimmer?"

I raised a brow.

"I don't want to show Duke to anyone else," he said.

"Did you bring another drawing?"

Sheepishly he pulled out another piece of paper with a sketch that looked like something Elizabeth would have done around the age of four.

"Is this…is this yours?" I asked.

"I drew it with my right hand," he answered.

"You're left-handed?"

"Only when I draw."

"Why did you use your right hand for this?"

Sebastian shrugged.

"Are you trying to prevent others from realizing your skill?" I asked.

"No," he said quickly. "I just…I don't know."

I left it at that. "Next week bring something you've worked on with your dominant hand."

"Yes, Grandfather," he mumbled, tucking the drawing back inside of his sketchbook.

"My pleasure, Grandson."

oOo

The second Carlyle Club meeting went quite well overall. There were no punches thrown, no name-calling, and not a single drop of alcohol consumed within the salon, although Vincent certainly smelled like he'd partaken in quite a few drinks prior to his arrival.

As soon as the table was filled, I went over rules that would be set forth going forward, surprised that there were no protests from anyone in attendance. Despite meeting ahead of time, I had expected a bit of push back from Sebastian, but he nodded in agreement despite scowling the whole time as he sat with his arms crossed and legs spread in his atrocious red velvet trousers.

Both Mona and Ink attended, as well as everyone from the previous meeting. The group officially adjourned at seven, but most everyone stayed an additional half hour for food, which was brought by Pierre and Calista. Apparently they took turns supplying snacks, which were typically eaten throughout the meeting, making it more of a party that included art rather than a critique group that met over art and had a few bites to eat.

"You know who would love this man right here?" Pierre asked as he licked his fingers clean after finishing an entire bag of crisps. He jabbed his thumb in my direction and I immediately looked away.

"Everyone," Mona said.

From the corner of my eye I saw Ink, who sat across from her, readily nodded.

"Ivo! Who would like him?" Pierre shouted despite the size of the room where we sat that didn't warrant raised voices.

I stared at the edge of the table in front of me while I tapped my foot, feeling increasingly uncomfortable being discussed despite doing most of the talking for the two hours the group met.

Ivo continued to stuff food into his mouth. "Renard?"

Pierre scoffed. "No and I hope to God that bastard never shows up again. Guess again."

"Oh, just tell us, you fart," Vincent groused.

Pierre looked disappointed that no one wanted to guess. He threw his hands in the air quite dramatically.

"Marco!" he said. "Marco would adore this man."

I immediately turned my full attention to Pierre. "Who is Marco?" I asked.

"Fabienne," Sebastian said before Pierre responded. "Pierre is correct. He probably would like you."

My heart stuttered. "This is a friend of yours?" I asked, looking from Sebastian to Pierre.

"He comes by when he's not nursing from his mother's tit," Vincent grumbled.

I immediately took offense to his words. "What does that mean?" I snapped.

Calista, who was beside me for the second week in a row, patted my shoulder. "Marco is a bit…sheltered, shall we say? He's very handsome, very wealthy, and very protected by his mother. He must tell her he's off to church on Thursdays as I don't believe she would ever allow him here with us. We will corrupt her precious son, filthy Bohemians that we are and all."

Florine definitely would have forbidden Marco attending if she knew I was at the Carlyle Club. Perhaps she was aware. For all I knew, she had spies in the city watching my every move.

"Is he a good artist?" I asked.

No one spoke immediately.

"I think he's very good," Ink said at last.

I blinked at him. "You know Marco as well?" I asked, surprised that the two of them had been in contact.

"From here, yes. He was at the other meetings I attended."

"He's quite welcome to attend," I said. "If someone would be so kind as to invite him."

My insides vibrated. This was how I could finally meet Marco. My artist son would walk into the Carlyle Club and we could finally meet after seventeen years.

"When he returns," Pierre said.

"Returns?" I questioned. "Is he on holiday with his mother?"

Pierre stretched his hands over his head. "Marco couldn't take it any more," he said. "I heard he took ten thousand francs and disappeared."

"He didn't take that much," Vincent argued.

"Where did he go?" I questioned.

Pierre shrugged. "I heard Italy, to his deceased father's family."

"He's not in Italy. Everyone knows that's not his real father," Vincent said, looking directly at me as he spoke. "It's a story his mother made up to cover for being a whore."

"You don't need to be crass," Ivo argued.

"It's true. He looks like the son of a whore," Vincent said.

"What on earth are you talking about? You've never met him, have you?" Sebastian asked.

"I know more than you do, you brainless fool," Vincent said. "Keep your mouth closed, Sebastian. You attract flies with your rotting teeth."

Sebastian looked truly stunned by Vincent's verbal attack.

"Vincent, please leave," I said.

Vincent scoffed at me. "Go to hell, Professor."

The room fell silent, all eyes on me.

"Pack your belongings and get out," I ordered.

"What did you say to me?" Vincent said through his teeth.

"I said leave."

"Why?" Vincent demanded.

"Because I stated at the very start of this meeting that if you could not be civil with others, you will be asked to leave. Now I am asking you to leave."

"Tell Sebastian to leave. He's the idiot in the group and no one wants him here anyway. He's a child and acts like one."

"I'm not asking Sebastian to leave. I am telling you. Now collect your belongings and be on your way. Now."

"And if I don't?" Vincent asked, rolling up his sleeves.

I inhaled, having no intention of physically removing him from the salon, but feeling quite confident that Vincent realized he was much smaller and weaker than me.

I stood swiftly and stalked toward him, jaw set, body rigid, hoping to God he didn't grab hold of my left arm as it would send me to my knees.

Vincent nearly fell out of his chair as I approached. He scurried to his feet, ducking beneath me, and left without taking his belongings.

"I'm telling Theo," Vincent said over his shoulder.

I sighed, fully expecting my next encounter with Theo Van Gogh would not be a pleasant one.